


Stripped

by TheSigyn



Category: Moonlighting (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-20
Updated: 2002-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:38:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSigyn/pseuds/TheSigyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bert could just imagine MacGillicuddy's cold, blond scorn as he sneered down at Bert from his decent height. "You aren't a detective. You can't even find a stripper for a bachelor party. You can't honor your obligations. You don't deserve Agnes. You're too short. You aren't even worthy of being called a man."<br/>Not worthy of... Bert looked up. He gazed at his reflection in the hall mirror. He turned his head. He stretched his neck. He pulled back his shoulders. He looked down at his legs. Then he shook his head. "I'm not that desperate," he said, slumping down onto a chair.<br/>MacGillicuddy... sneering... calling him Squirt...<br/>"Yes, I am," he decided, grabbed his wallet and headed out the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stripped

**Author's Note:**

> One of my very earliest fanfictions, never before published because frankly, my Herbert ones are silly. Written 2002
> 
> All the stories written 2002 are posted solely so that I can point at them when someone claims they'll never be as good a writer as me. Yes you will. Look where I started.

  
  
    The conversation had been going on for well nigh an hour. Herbert and MacGillicuddy seemed, for the first time in months, to almost be getting along. Though while they were working side by side and comparing copious notes, there were several times when Agnes noticed the grimace Bert always used when he growled in irritation. MacGillicuddy constantly had on the patient, scornful expression he used whenever he spoke to, or about, Herbert. Agnes sighed and went back to her typing. Whatever was going on between them, for once, it wasn't about her. For that she was thankful.  
    Ever since MacGillicuddy had gotten divorced, he had lavished attention on Agnes, which infuriated Herbert. Nothing she could say could convince him that MacGillicuddy hadn't paid one whit of an eye bat at her direction before he was married. He had sat in that office and had hardly looked at her. As far as any romantic relationship was concerned, MacGillicuddy had given too little, too late.  
    But Herbert would never believe that. He was so insecure, he had even believed that Agnes had slept with MacGillicuddy, even though she was dating Bert at the time. I'd never do that she thought. She loved Bert too much to even consider it.  
     She did love him. His insecurity was sometimes quite hard for her to understand. It was blatantly obvious that as far as Agnes was concerned, he was the only real man in the world. She had pounced on him, after all, and claimed him for hers the first morning they met. Somehow, he kept forgetting about that.  
    She wondered when they had traded places. When they first met it was Agnes who lusted after him from afar. Now that they were together, Agnes found herself irritated with him more often than she and her sweet, rosy heart had thought possible. Whereas he seemed to adore every inch of her, and press their relationship forward. She had, in fact, just agreed to move in with him. They were looking over new apartments. This was almost moving too fast, they had only been going out for about four months. But she loved him so... oh, did she love him.  
    When Mr. Addison left the office, both Bert and MacGillicuddy followed him to the elevator, speaking quickly. Bert and MacGillicuddy, working together, no matter how much friction was involved. Agnes supposed it wasn't surprising that even the relationship between those rivals had turned on its head. Everything had gone strangely since Ms. Hayes had come back. Now she was married to a man no one had ever met before, whom she herself had only known for a day before she wed him. Mr. Addison had just promised to throw her a lavish wedding, and while Agnes loved weddings, she couldn't help but feel a little down about it. Mr. Addison and Ms. Hayes belonged together, and either of them marrying anyone else left a bad taste in her mouth.  
    At the same time, she couldn't help but be flattered when she was asked (well, told, really) to be Ms. Hayes' Matron of Honor. All beliefs about relationships aside, Agnes was determined to enjoy the event.  
    Bert and MacGillicuddy came back into the office, sans Mr. Addison. "I'm still doing it," MacGillicuddy snapped.  
    "Oh, are you!" Bert sneered. "I can just imagine the kind of party you'd throw on your own! Talk about dull as a sandstone. You couldn't have thought up a thing without me, and you know it."  
    "I could have."  
    "Oh, could you. You don't even know where to find any women of the right character, stuck behind this desk of yours all day. Though I suppose you could call your ex-wife."  
    "Bert," Agnes said quietly, to show him she was listening. Bert glanced at her, and looked a little ashamed of himself.  
    MacGillicuddy, however, didn't seem to notice either Bert's barb or his subsequent shame. "Fine. If you're so clever, you find the stripper then."  
    Herbert lifted his chin, a fruitless gesture, and utterly failed to look down his nose at MacGillicuddy. "I will," he announced. "Tomorrow evening then. I assume you're actually going to rent the hall?"  
    "Of course I am," MacGillicuddy said patiently. "You go and call your mother, and tell her she's got a job for Friday night." Clearly he had noticed the barb then.  
    Bert glared at him. He snorted, and failed to find adequate words for a comeback before MacGillicuddy grabbed his briefcase and headed out the door. Bert growled at the floor, but his expressive face softened when he saw that Agnes was finished with her work and was packing up her purse. "Dinner tonight, darling?" he asked as he materialized at her side.  
    Agnes smiled at him. "I'd love to," she said.  
  


***

  
    The two of them compared notes on apartment hunting until the food arrived, and then had to put their papers away.  
    "So what are you and MacGillicuddy plotting?" Agnes asked over the table.  
    Herbert smiled softly at her. "I thought up a wonderful idea," he told her. And without further ado, he proceeded to describe to her, in detail, the bachelor party he and MacGillicuddy had decided to throw for Ms. Hayes’ new husband, Walter Bishop. As Bert was gifted with a broad vocabulary, and lacked a suitable outlet for his verboseness, Agnes got to hear about the entire thing with an eloquence bordering on poetry. By the time dessert came around, Agnes was the one feeling insecure. "It sounds wonderful," she murmured.  
    Bert could sometimes be incredibly dense about other's emotions, but he made up for it with stunning observation at times. "Agnes," he asked with great concern. "What is it?"  
    "Nothing," she said, staring into her ice cream.  
    Bert looked at her knowingly. He took her hand. He really did know her better than almost anyone else did. "Agnes, what has upset you?"  
    "It's nothing. Go and have fun at your party. With your stripper," Agnes added. She hadn't meant to add that. She felt ashamed. It wasn't as if they were married or anything, and a stripper wasn't a prostitute, it wasn't like he was cheating on her or anything.  
    "Oh," Bert grinned his wicked little grin, the one he had whenever he felt particularly pleased him himself for any reason, and he rested  his arms on the table, moving closer to her face. "Agnes, no one could be as nice to watch as you."        
    "But women aren't allowed to such things," Agnes heard herself saying. "At least, not most women. Not... well... Anyway, it's okay. Really, Bert, it sounds like a very nice gesture." She glanced at the check, grabbed her purse and shuffled up to pay.  
    Bert hastened after her. "Look, if it makes you feel any better, I won't go," he said. He was serious. Agnes stared down at him. "Really," he said. "I wouldn't make you feel bad for the world." When Bert said something like that, he meant it.  
    Agnes smiled at him crookedly. "You have to go, Bert. You planned it." She handed the clerk her credit card just as Bert reached to snatch it out of her hand. "My turn," she told him pointedly. Sometimes his chivalry was a little too much to bear. He earned less than she did, and she knew it. She signed the checks. When she'd calculated in her head how much he was spending on dates with her, she'd realized he had to be living on baloney and cornflakes, and leaving the lights off a lot. After the first month, she insisted on paying for dinner on occasion.  
    Bert sighed. It hurt his dignity to be taken out to dinner by a woman. Many things hurt Bert's dignity. But he accepted with silence. They had already discussed this matter many times. His dignity bruised, he grabbed at the opportunity to salve it. "I won't go to anything which would cause you pain," he told her.  
    Agnes signed the receipt and took Bert's arm. She steered him out the door. "No, Bert. I overreacted. You should go. I want you to go."  
    "But,"  
    "But nothing. You went to all this work. You even spoke to MacGillicuddy. I can't have you back out now. MacGillicuddy would never let you live it down, and you'd never forgive yourself."  
    Bert stopped on the sidewalk and stared into her eyes. "I'd never forgive myself if I thought of you wondering all night if some woman of joy was waving her mammories in my face."  
    Agnes gave a quick sigh. That was exactly what she was worried about. "I trust you, Bert," she said quietly.  
    Herbert smiled at her and held her arm to his chest as he started them walking again. "I know," he said. "You're the most trusting, considerate woman in the world. But it's my duty to make sure you feel secure. I'll go to the party," he said, "because you say I must. And you are correct, since it was my idea, and it is also my duty to fulfill the obligations I set upon myself. But I cannot bring myself to leave you all to yourself the night before a wedding. The party starts at nine, I'll see it off, make sure the woman I hired is present, and then come to you at your apartment by ten, or ten thirty." He paused. "If that is amenable to you," he added. He always asked when he invited himself up to her apartment, and sometimes double checked when she did. It was as if he couldn't believe she'd ever want him up there. Of course, Agnes had a tendency to do the same thing. It was something which made her love him more, in fact.  
     She smiled and lay her head on his shoulder, for the few moments for which her back could stand the strain. "You're sweet," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow night, then."  
  
  
  
***  
  
          
    Bert was just heading out the door to go to the party when the phone rang. He closed the door and dashed across the livingroom to his telephone.  
    "Herbert Viola speaking," he said.  
    "Yeah, hi, this is Cindy."  
    Bert was stumped for a moment. Cindy? Was this some creature from the distant past come to wreak havoc just as he was nurturing a life with Agnes? After a second of panic, he realized why he only barely recognized the name. It was the name of the stripper he had hired. He relaxed.  
    "Ah, yes. Do you need directions?"  
    "I can't make it," she said.  
    Bert's panic came back with a slam. "What do you mean you can't make it?" he asked.  
    "I seem to have picked up the flu or something," Cindy said. "I could make it, I suppose, but I'm afraid vomiting into the husband-to-be's lap is not usually considered very sexy."  
    Bert suddenly had a vision of what that particular show stopper would do to his reputation as a talent agent. "No, you can't make it," he said instantly. But he needed a stripper. He needed one. "Have you got a friend?"  
    "What?"  
    "Someone to take your place. Have you a filler? A back stop? Are you part of a union? Have you got some sort of agency?"  
    "What on earth are you talking about?" the voice on the other end asked.  
    "I need a substitute, it's vitally important, you don't understand!" Herbert barked into the phone. He was really panicked now. "My entire future at Blue Moon won't be worth an hour’s purchase if there isn't a stripper at this bachelor party! Have you a sister? A mother? A daughter?"  
    The woman hung up.  
    "I shouldn't have asked for a daughter," Bert realized. He hung up the phone and began pacing around his livingroom. "What can I do? It's too short notice... It's not late enough, there aren't any prostitutes on the streets... I can't just call an agency, she's right... Oh, God, MacGillicuddy is going to flay me for this."  
    Bert could just imagine his cold, blond scorn as he sneered down at Bert from his decent height. "You aren't a detective. You can't even find a stripper for a bachelor party. You can't honor your obligations. You don't deserve Agnes. You're too short. You aren't even worthy of being called a man."  
    Not worthy of... Bert looked up. He gazed at his reflection in the hall mirror. He turned his head. He stretched his neck. He pulled back his shoulders. He looked down at his legs. Then he shook his head. "I'm not that desperate," he said, slumping down onto a chair.  
    MacGillicuddy... sneering... calling him Squirt...  
    "Yes, I am," he decided, grabbed his wallet and headed out the door.  
  
  
***  
  
  
    It was eleven thirty. Something was wrong.  
    Herbert wouldn't have lied to her. He wouldn't have gone to the party and forgotten about her once he got there... would he?  
    Agnes stared in the mirror. Usually she liked her reflection. She was sunny and cheerful and anger and self-doubt rarely crept into her mind. But when she was worried, her "bad side" shone through. Usually this manifested itself in some sort of minor irritation, but tonight she couldn't help but wonder if Herbert was out somewhere... with a more beautiful woman than she.  
    She glared at her reflection. She was skinny. Boney, really. Her nose was crooked, and she had funny, goggly eyes, and she had a face like a horse. Her voice sounded like a duck. How could a man like Herbert, sweet and earnest and endearing enough to win any girl he set out to get, how could a man like him not realize that he was getting the short end of the stick in her? She was silly. She was simple. She was something of a slut. Her idea of seduction was to grab a man and throw him onto the floor. He hadn't wanted her when she first met him. She'd nearly frightened him off for good. What if, faced with a woman, gifted in looks, seductive talent and rich in experience, Herbert decided Agnes wasn't good enough for him? What if, suddenly faced with the reality of living with her, he panicked and couldn't help himself?  
    Oh, he'd come and apologize to her in the morning, as she was getting ready for the wedding. He'd explain the whole situation in detail, perhaps even the seduction itself, laced with his beautiful analogies and similes. And what could she say? There were times she could imagine herself taking hold of his brown lapels, staring her goggling eyes down into his face and begging him not to leave her alone. What would she do without him?  
    The very thought was enough to make her sweat with terror. She knew, intellectually, that she'd be fine without him. She was fine before he came along. She could be okay again. But she'd never be able to forget him, or the way he spoke to her, like she was the most precious gift in the galaxy. What other man would ever be able to talk his way so deeply into her heart? None.  
    At the thought of his voice Agnes found herself dashing to the phone. Without even considering, her fingers had dialed his number, and she found herself listening to his phone ringing... once... twice... pick up, Herbert, please. Three times... four... "Whirr... click," said the other end of the phone. And then Herbert's voice came through the receiver.  
    "I've no gift for rhyme, in fact, I couldn't be worse, so my girlfriend Agnes has written this verse; This is Herbert Viola, I can't get on the line, so leave me a message, and I'll get back in... that doesn't rhyme!" Hebert whispered. Agnes's own voice could be heard further away, "It's a near rhyme, just say it!" "Time," Herbert added. "Now, what button to stop recording? Is it this one?" and the message went dead.    
    Agnes gulped. She remembered that day. Herbert had mentioned that his phone message was dull. Agnes had insisted she could fix it. She'd whipped that rhyme up at the spur of the moment, and then had to write it down, because for the life of him, he couldn't remember it. After he had recorded it, he'd smiled and said, "You have now officially put the Agnes Dipesto stamp upon this bachelor abode."  
    Herbert always answered the phone. Even in the midst of passion he would get up and leave her all alone so that he could be sure it wasn't some emergency and Mr. Addison needed him for some case. At least he wasn't at his apartment, living it up with some stripper... or someone worse...  
    She heard a beep.  
    "This is Agnes, where are you? Are you in a fix? You promised to visit tonight for some kicks. You can't have forgotten, cause I know you care. You're not here, you're not home, now I'm wondering where? Are you?" She hung up the phone. It was an imperfect rhyme. She only used imperfect rhymes when she was upset.  
    She wished she was Ms. Hayes. First off, Ms. Hayes was cover girl beautiful, no one would leave her for a stripper filled bachelor party. But mostly, Ms. Hayes was a detective. She wouldn't let her boyfriend vanish in the middle of the night, right before he was supposed to be taking her to a wedding. And if he did, she'd find him, by golly!  
    Agnes decided to take matters into her own hands. Herbert wasn't home. He had said he was going to this bachelor party. So he must have gone. Or... started to go... What if he was hurt? What if he'd gotten into an accident? What if he... What if he had gone and then gone to the stripper's place?  
    Agnes opened her phone book. Bert had told her the name of the hall they were renting. The party room in the Grand Hotel. Feverishly, Agnes looked up the phone number. She dialed. "Grand Hotel, may I help you?" the other end answered.  
    As always, Agnes's first thought was "Amateur." Her mother had instilled in her a strong sense that everything to do with phones should be in verse. Her mother had thought it up to keep her from going insane, as she had done nothing all her life but answer phones all day, and now Agnes could hardly pick up a phone without going into rhyme. But she had other fish to fry. "I'm trying to reach Herbert Viola. He's supposed to be part of the Bishop party."  
    "I'll check the guest list," the receptionist said, and a moment passed. "I'm sorry," she said. "He was on the guest list, but that name hasn't been checked off. He must not have shown up."  
    Maybe Mr. Addison needed him. Maybe they were out on an emergency case...  
    "Is there a Mr. David Addison there?" she asked.  
    There was another pause. "There's a David and a Richard Addison checked off on the guest list," the receptionist said. "Would you like me to get him?"  
    "No, thank you," Agnes whispered, and hung up.  
    He was hurt. He was ill. He had been lynched. There was no way he wouldn't have gone to either that party or to Agnes's apartment, if those were the two places he said he'd be. Herbert just wasn't the kind of man to change his plans at the last minute without some sort of emergency.  
    Agnes was just about to call all the hospitals when she paused. It would be silly to call and ask if Herbert Viola had been admitted. Herbert had her phone number next to his driver's licence, with a note, "In case of emergency, phone Agnes Dipesto." He was thoughtful like that. If he was in a hospital, she'd have been called.  
    What if he had been hurt in his apartment? What if he had fallen from a ladder, and broke his skull? What if his refrigerator had fallen over, and he was trapped underneath, gasping his last, unable to reach his telephone, or get enough air to call for help?  
    Agnes was picking up her purse and heading out the door before she had even finished deciding she would go and check.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
    Bert got out of his car and trudged up the stairs to his apartment. One of his neighbors walked past him to get her apartment. She stared at him. Bert smiled genially and tossed his hair. She blinked. Bert wondered if he had fooled her.  
    Probably not.  
    He sighed and reached into his purse for the key to his apartment. He couldn't wait to get into his bathroom and begin to turn himself back into Herbert Viola. This had to have been one of the worst nights of his life.  
    First off, the only place he could get a proper dress at that time of night didn't rent. He had no intention of asking Agnes for help in this humiliating venture. He'd had to buy the entire outfit, accessories, wig and make up himself. Not to mention the razor. He went to the bathroom and glared at the damning pink thing on his sink. His face itched. He hadn't shaved properly in years. He was unable to actually grow a beard, somehow his hair didn't grow enough, but he had sensitive skin. Shaving always stung bloody murder.  
    His face was bad enough. It was his legs which were really bothering him. He kicked off his pumps and slid off the damning pantyhose.  
    He was glad he had shaved his legs. The way MacGillicuddy had been fondling them half the night, it would have been blatantly obvious who Bert was if he hadn't. MacGillicuddy. Bert snarled into the mirror. That lecherous pervert. Bert wanted to hang him by his toenails and watch him skinned alive by a savage pygmy with a wooden spoon. That image lightened his spirits as he struggled with the zipper of the black beaded dress he wore.  
    Then he heard a push on his buzzer. Damn it. He had pulled into his neighbor's parking space again, hadn't he? He pulled off the wig and dumped it on the back of the toilet as he went to ask the person on the intercom what the problem was.  
    "Yeah?" he said, struggling with his bra one handed.  
    "Bert? Are you okay?"  
    Bert's eyes opened wide. "Agnes!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"  
    "You said you'd come over tonight. What's the matter?"  
    "Ahmm... Nothing's the matter, Agnes."  
    "Bert? Can't I come up?"  
    He couldn't send her away. Not without some sort of explanation, she'd be heartbroken. She'd assume he'd brought home the stripper he was impersonating. He certainly couldn't explain that she had to wait while he got out of his drag. "Ahm... ahm... yeah. Of course you can come up, Agnes. Of course you can come up. Come on up." He pushed the button beside the intercom with a sense of dreadful finality, as if he was letting in Thanatos himself.  
    "Ak!" he said, and dashed into his bedroom, pulling the dress off as he ran. The damned thing fit him too well. He couldn't get the bra off. He'd always had problems with those. Agnes was probably already at top of the stairs... all she had to do now was walk down the hall and knock on his door. At that point, he had about thirty seconds before she began to get suspicious.  
    He ripped the bra off and dumped it on the floor of his closet. He kicked the dress in with it. There. He slammed the door to the closet closed and ran into the bathroom for his bathrobe.  
    Agnes knocked.  
    Bert glanced at the mirror. Make up! He scrubbed the rouge and lipstick off his face with a dry towel.  
    "Bert?" Agnes asked.  
    "Just a second!" Bert yelled. Oh, why had be bought such long lasting make up? So that it wouldn't come off at the party and he'd be recognized. But it didn't scrub very well.  
    "Bert, are you okay in there?"  
    "Coming!" Herbert yelled. It would have to do. He'd send her to the kitchen and work on it more carefully in a minute. He went to his door and opened it.  
    Agnes stood before him, her face stricken. "What's the matter with you?" she asked. "You never act like this."  
    "Nothing's the matter with me Agnes," Bert smiled, trying desperately to sound calm.  
    Agnes stared at him intently. He looked different... Very different... Bert reached over and snapped off the light, but not before Agnes saw that not only was he neat and clean shaven, Herbert had lipstick smudges on his lips. And it wasn't her shade.  
    Her face twitched. He had brought someone home! "I just thought I'd come and make sure you were all right," she said. "You promised to come over, after all, I was worried about you."  
    "I promised to come over?" Oh, that's right, he had! Damn! He'd brought this confrontation upon himself. "I'm sorry, darling, I was distracted."  
    "By the party," Agnes said, pushing past him.  
    "Of course," Bert said. "You couldn't imagine what a wild thing it was, movies and shouting men and giant bloody cakes..." He couldn't get over how cramped that thing had been. How much he had felt like he was about to be eaten...  
    Agnes glared at him. "Must have been some party," she said.  
    "Oh, it was," Bert began, but Agnes had already turned away and had gone straight for his bedroom.  
    Agnes looked around. The bed was neatly made. That spoke moderately well. There was no woman blatantly apparent. She looked into the bathroom.  
    "Agnes, what are you doing?" Bert ran into the bedroom behind her, out of the dimly lit livingroom.  
    "Just looking," Agnes snapped.  
    "Don't go in there." Bert sounded panicked.  
    Agnes glared at him. So. She was in the shower, was she? She entered the bathroom and snapped on the light.  
    No women. No one in the shower. She peeked behind the door.  
    There, unmistakable. A pair of pantyhose shouted accusingly up from the floor. A pile of make-up stood on the sink.  
    Tears filled her eyes. He was cheating on her. Her Herbert. He didn't really love her. He went to find his sexual pleasure with some experienced, beautiful girl toy. "Where is she?" Agnes threw at him.  
    "Who?"  
    "The woman you've been running with all night!"  
    "Agnes, I can't have been," Bert began.  
    Agnes advanced on him. He backed up until he was against the wall. "You had to be. You aren't the only one who can do detective work, Mr. Viola! I checked up on you! You didn't even go to the party! You hooked up with the woman you hired, didn't you? Didn't you!"  
    Bert felt like fox cornered by a pack of hounds. "Not exactly," he said. This was true.  
    "Not exactly? Not exactly? How can you not exactly shack up with a stripper? How can you not exactly betray the woman who loves you, Bert, and you'd better have an answer, and I want an exactly this time!"  
    "Agnes, I haven't been with any women!" Bert gasped.  
    "Haven't you? Haven't you?!?!" Agnes glared down into his face.  
    "Look, I..." Bert had no idea what he was going to say to Agnes's furious, betrayed face. But at that moment, her face changed. She stared at him still, but the anger turned to astonishment. "I haven't brought any women home, Agnes, honest, I,"  
    Agnes touched his cheek, and then brushed under one of his eyes. "Oh, Bert," she said. She sounded disappointed.  
    "Look, I can explain," Bert began.  
    Agnes sighed. "Don't bother." And with dreadful finality, she opened Bert's closet.  
    Among the carefully hung suit coats and the military rows of brown ties, Agnes saw exactly what she had expected to find. On the floor of Herbert's closet the black beaded dress and the white padded bra shone luridly against the beige carpeting.       
    "Herbert," she said sorrowfully, picking up a hanger and hanging the dress carefully. "These things will crease of you don't take care of them."  
    Bert stared at her in petrified shock.  
    Agnes brushed the gown down with her hands and went back into the bathroom, where she began putting the makeup carefully away in the medicine cabinet.  
    Herbert went after her in a daze and watched her through the door.  
    "I'm not upset, Bert," she said. "I just wish you had told me. It would have explained a lot about you," she added. She picked up the pantyhose from behind the door and turned them back from inside out.  
    "Agnes, I don't think you understand," Bert began.  
    "No, I understand, Herbert." Agnes smiled shyly at him. "It's okay, you know. At least I didn't find out four years from now after I've started wondering why all my favorite underwear are getting stretched out. Or why all my makeup is wearing down so fast." She rolled the panty hose into a ball, picked up the wig from the top of the toilet and kissed Herbert's cheek as she walked out. She opened the drawer which held his boxers with deft assuredness, and tucked the pantyhose inside with them. "It only changes things a little bit," she added. "It's not that important at all. What do you call yourself when you wear this?" she asked, holding the wig up.  
    "What?" Suddenly Herbert understood. "Now wait a minute, you don't think that I do this on a regular basis, do you?" Bert asked, aghast.  
     "Of course not," Agnes said, smiling serenely. "You'd have shaved before now. How often does the urge grab you?"  
    "Never!" Herbert shrieked, loud enough to shake the walls. His upstairs neighbor pounded on his floor. Bert glanced up at his ceiling and then buried his head in his hands. "Oh, God," he muttered. This was a curse. He'd dressed himself in drag. He'd popped out a cake and sang The Lady is a Tramp in a soft alto to a room full of drunken louts, most of whom he himself had invited. He'd submitted to being pawed by MacGillicuddy for an hour. Mr. Addison had recognized him, and Bert was entirely reliant upon his sense of honor to keep his name from being rolled in the mud of the office tabloids. His face stung. His legs itched. And now the woman he loved thought of him as a transvestite!  
    He looked up. Agnes looked stricken. "Bert, you're in tears!"  
    Bert buried his face again. This wasn't the first time Agnes had nearly brought him to tears, but usually he wasn't already half blinded from make up and exhaustion, and usually they didn't actually fall.  
    "You're not taking hormones or anything, are you?" She sounded quite worried.  
    Bert groaned. "Oh, God, Agnes," he moaned. He sank onto his bed, because his legs refused to hold him. "It's really not what you think," he added into his hands.    
    Agnes stared down at him. She seemed more perplexed than upset, which cheered him but little. She towered over him at the best of times, but now Herbert felt about six centimeters tall beneath her steady gaze.  
    He realized then. She wasn't going to say anything. She was going to let him explain himself. The trouble was, he couldn't explain himself. The explanation seemed feeble to his own ears, utterly implausible. He shook his head and looked up at her. "You aren't even going to believe me," he said to her.  
    Agnes blinked twice and then knelt down on the floor at his feet, gazing up into his face, her hands on his shaved knees. She was giving him the higher vantage point. He had studied such things. His heart went out to her immediately, and he suddenly felt it would all be all right. She'd believe him, she'd understand. He visibly relaxed and the agony in his face melted. He sighed. He almost smiled. "The stripper I hired called sick an hour before she was supposed to show up," he said. He went through all the paths his mind had gone down, the possibilities of humiliation versus certainty of ridicule, and told how he had arrived finally at the only viable option. "I had to bite the bullet. Strip the ego. Shave," he said. "I'm dreadfully sorry to say that what with the lascivious MacGillicuddy trying to seduce me, I actually forgot I had promised to come and see you," he finished. He looked for more words, but they had left him. After thirty some odd years the well of eloquence in the English language had just dried up.  
    Agnes looked up at him, as if she was looking at a puppy. She smiled. "Come on," she said, and stood. She took his hand a led him to the bathroom, where she closed the lid of the toilet and sat him carefully down upon it. She took a washcloth and turned on the hot water in the sink, finally picking up Bert's shampoo. "This isn't the best for this, but we don't have any eye cream," she said. "You can't leave on that mascara," she told him. "You'll get a stye." She carefully rubbed a little of the shampoo into the cloth and knelt down before him. "Close your eyes," she directed.  
    Bert stared at her a moment, filled with more love than he thought possible. Then he obeyed.  
    "Tight," she added. She gently scrubbed at his eyelashes, first with the soaped section, then rinsing with the clean half of the cloth. Then she proceeded to take the last of the lipstick off.  
    Bert opened his eyes. She took the cloth off his lips and he took her hand in his, kissing the backs of her fingers gently. "I love you so much," he whispered.  
    "Good," Agnes said. "I was worried, you know. I thought... well... you wouldn't do that, I don't know why I worried."  
    Herbert wrapped his arms around her and buried his nose in her hair. "Let's go to bed," he whispered in her ear. "I have to affirm my manhood somehow."  
  
***  
  
    They lay in bed together, entwined like two pretzels. Bert was struck with a sudden thought. "Agnes," he asked into the darkness.  
    "Mm?" Agnes hummed into his chest.  
    "You would have been willing to stay with me... even if I dressed in drag on a semi-regular basis?"  
    Agnes raised her head and leaned her chin on her hand, looking down at him in the dim light coming in through the bedroom window from the city street. "Of course," she said to him. "I love you, Herbert. It would really take a lot more than an occasional penchant towards cross-dressing to get me to leave you."  
    Bert stared at her in wonder. "You are an incredible woman, Agnes Dipesto," he told her.  
    "And you are quite a remarkable man."Agnes smiled and gently brushed her fingers down his for once smooth jaw line. "It's rather odd, sleeping with a man with shaved legs."  
    Bert visibly blushed, even in the dim light. Agnes grinned. "You look so much younger like this," she said, caressing his cheek.  
    "What?" Bert asked.  
    "Like a twelve year old."  
    Herbert stared behind her at where the tv cameras would have been, had this segment been on the air, a "come on!" expression. "Thanks," he said. "Great, not only am I the love of MacGillicuddy's life, my girlfriend thinks I look like a child!"  
    Agnes laughed and kissed him, before he got too worked up. "At least you'll be nice and clean for the wedding tomorrow," she told him.  
    Bert was tired and felt incredibly relaxed and peaceful. It was dark and it was late and he had had a very stressful evening. "At least," he murmured, pulling Agnes back onto his chest, and burying his nose in her hair. He liked lying in bed. It was one of the few times in his life he could have his head above hers. "I'll like seeing you in your bridesmaid's dress," he told her.  
    "Me too," Agnes said. "I like weddings."  
    "So do I," Bert said.  
    "Really?"  
    Bert smiled and squeezed her shoulders. "Maybe you'll catch the bouquet," he whispered.  
    Suddenly they both went perfectly still. Bert realized exactly what he had said. If he said anything else now, either for or against, it would put more import on it than he wanted. The thing about that statement was that it was perfectly innocent by itself. And in fact, even not perfectly innocent, it was the truth, in the way Herbert thought of Agnes. She was, as far as he was concerned, the only woman for him in the world. He didn't want to deny the idea, and possibly seriously damage the possibilities of long term relationship by saying "I didn't mean it that way". But that didn't exactly mean he meant to commit that seriously to her just yet.  
    Agnes opened her eyes wide when he said it. What had he just said? What had he meant by it? She wasn't ready to get married! Yet. Yet. But... if she was going to get married, it would be to Bert. If she had a choice, at that moment, of never seeing him again and marrying him, she would marry him. She loved him, with all her heart. But... it hadn't been that long since they'd known each other... there might be something they didn't know yet about each other... She didn't want to commit that seriously to him just yet. "Do you like that idea?" she said.  
    Bert closed his eyes. Blessed Agnes. She had just given him an opening, from this corner he had accidently allowed peace and contentment to trap himself into. "Well. It's a thought," he said quietly. This too was true. This left the question only a little bit less veiled than if it hadn't been mentioned at all. It was clear they had both thought of it. She was willing to stay with him if he was a cross-dresser, for chrissake!  
    Agnes sighed happily into Herbert's chest. "Indeed. It is a thought," she said.  
    Bert sighed too, and as he relaxed he realized it wasn't just his own heart he was feeling beating too fast against his chest. He grinned. She'd been just as terrified by that blithe statement as he had been. That meant, he had no reason to be scared. "You know," he said. "That was probably the most serious casual conversation I've ever had in my life."  
    Agnes chuckled, and squeezed his ribs. "Me too," she said.  
  
  



End file.
